


Loose Spirits

by Edge_of_Clairvoyance



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action, Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Love, Brothers, Case Fic, Corporal Punishment, Discipline, Domestic Discipline, Family, Family Drama, Family Feels, Gen, Non-Consensual Spanking, POV Dean Winchester, Pre-Series, Pre-Series Dean Winchester, Pre-Series Sam Winchester, Punishment, Spanking, Teen Dean Winchester, Teenchesters, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 14:38:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13526373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edge_of_Clairvoyance/pseuds/Edge_of_Clairvoyance
Summary: Dean would have loved to do whatever his little brother wanted, but actually helping Sam stage a salt and burn? It was taking it way too far, even for his taste. He needed to stop it before it came back to bite them in the ass, very literally so.But Sam was looking up at him with those big, beautiful eyes of his, coupled with that oh-so-adorable expression that said he trusted his awesome big brother was able to doanything; and Dean knew with absolute certainty that he was going to regret this.He was going to regret this so, so much.





	1. A Simple Plan

**Author's Note:**

> Parental spanking of minors - if it may disturb, please don't read.  
> Also language, because Winchesters.
> 
> I was again lucky to have [CrazedPanda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrazedPanda) beta this story - thanks a bunch!

Looking back, Dean had several chances to stop what was to come, the first one being when he came into the motel room to see how Sam was doing with the packing. Sam looked up then at the sound of the opening door and his hand stuffed something into his backpack. Dean could have just overlooked it, but he didn't.

Maybe it was because Sam seemed too much like he'd been busted, with how his head shot up when Dean came in, and maybe it was because Dean caught a glimpse of what Sam was now shoving deeper into the backpack.

"What the hell are you doing with that, dude?"

"Nothin'," but Sam was looking away in that way of his which was a sure sign that whatever came out of him mouth was a complete and utter lie. Christ, the kid would have to do better than that if he was going to one day pass as an FBI agent, a US marshal or even a forest ranger.

Dean came over to where Sam was kneeling on the carpet by his cot, crouched down and reached into the backpack.

"That ain't nothin'," he said, holding up the hairbrush. "Why are you packing this? You think Dad's gonna give you that ass whooping in the middle of the fucking graveyard?"

Sam took the hairbrush back and crammed it forcefully into the backpack. "He's not gonna give me that ass whooping there, or anywhere else."

"Yeah? How come?"

"Because I'm going to burn the brush."

Dean nearly choked. "You're what?!"

"Gonna burn it."

"Like, in the salt and burn?" Sam finished zipping up the bag, and looked up at his brother.

"Yeah. That's the rightful place for it."

Dean settled back on his heels, his eyes still on Sam. "You don't really think that if you make the brush disappear, Dad's just gonna let you off the hook? Because he said he'd do it after we're finished tonight, and you know he doesn't back down on that kind of stuff."

"But if he doesn't have the hairbrush, he'd use his hand."

"You don't know that. He might think it was time you moved up to the belt. You've had your thirteenth birthday last month, I was getting it for like two years already when I was your age."

Horror crossed briefly over Sam's face, before he shook his head. "Dad takes you for the tough one, not me. He still thinks I'm a child, treats me like a child. You don't whip a child with a belt."

Dean sighed and got up to look out the window. Dad was at the parking spot in front of their motel room, hunched over the engine of the Impala, that looked like a patiently yawning panther with her hood propped open. They meant to set out after dark, and Dad passed the time tinkering with her. Dean made sure Dad was still at it and that the sun still had some way to go until it set, and then went back to Sam.

Sam moved to sit on his cot, and Dean took a seat opposite of him on the bed. He watched Sam for a minute as the younger boy studied his clasped hands.

"Talk to me, Sammy."

Sam shrugged. "What do you want me to say?"

"What's gotten into you with that brush?"

"I hate it," his voice was sharpened, and Dean stowed the "no shit" at the last moment. "You don't know how much it freakin' hurts."

It was true, of course; Dean hadn't had the pleasure of an intimate date with the hairbrush; it was Sam's as much as the belt was Dean's. But he had a pretty good idea about what it felt like. Didn't he sit in the bathroom listening as the swats rang loud and clear through the thin door? And wasn't he the one to hold Sammy later, when they went to bed, so the kid could cry some more?

And he could have mentioned that the belt probably hurt more, but it would only be rubbing it in. So he said, "no, I don't," and waited for Sam to get to the point.

"I'm just sick of it, you know?" Sam was still looking down at his hands. "I just… I just need to get rid of it."

That sounded like a horrible idea to Dean, but it wouldn't do to get in Sam's face about the general concept. He opted for the technicalities. "You sure picked a lousy timing for it, dude. I mean, Dad's gonna be looking for it tonight. It would look helluva suspicious if it went missing."

"I was going to do it sooner, but this is the first salt and burn Dad's taking me on for a while, and I couldn't do it before when it's always in his duffel, could I?"

"But why not just throw it away? Why wait for a job to get rid of it?"

Sam looked at him as if he was stupid. "Because it's _cursed_ , duh. You need to get rid of it _right_."

The notion of the hairbrush being cursed actually had some firm basis to it. Dad had found it a little over a year ago in an old mansion where he ganked the spirit of the murdered lady of the house. It was a genuine turn-of-the-century relic, and although it had little to no bristles left, the wide, oval mahogany base was as sturdy as when it was first carved.

Of course, Dad had made sure the brush was safe to carry, even took it to a hoodoo priest down in New Orleans as well as to Pastor Jim. And Dean had tried to explain to his brother that if there was any evil mojo at work, it was in their dad's swing rather than in the implement he might have been swinging at any particular moment, but Sam held on to his solid belief that there was no way the hairbrush could hurt that much without being cursed.

Dean passed another chance to stop the oncoming fate, and asked, "so what did you have planned?"

"Nothing too fancy. Taking the brush to the cemetery, waiting for Dad to light the corpse and then throw it in." It did sound simple enough to work. Sam tilted his head a bit. "You're gonna rat me out?"

"You know I won't, man. I think you're digging your own grave here, but hey, it's your ass."

"So you'll help me?"

Dean was somewhat taken aback at that. "Help you? Whadaya need help with? You said you're just gonna drop it in the fire."

"Yeah, but I also need to get the hairpin and burn it, too."

"What hairpin?" Dean was feeling more and more uneasy about the entire thing. He would have probably done well to heed that feeling while he could.

"Rebecca's hairpin. She's the ghost."

"I thought Elizabeth was the ghost," Sam shook his head. "The hell, dude? Did you do the research or not?!"

"I did. Rebecca's the ghost."

"So why did you tell Dad it was the other chick?"

"Because Rebecca was cremated. There's no remains to burn, just the hairpin. And I needed him to burn an actual body so he wouldn't notice when I added the hairbrush. Elizabeth's got a grave you can dig up."

This was getting out of hand. Sam faking a research just to get rid of his hated implement of punishment? Was his too-smart-for-his-own-good brother going completely insane?

"You're… Jesus Christ, Sam," Dean took a breath and tried to clear his head. "If Dad finds out about it, you're fucking _dead_."

"There's nothing to find out. It's a simple salt and burn, I'll throw the hairpin in and the ghost is gone. Dad's never gonna find out it was the pin that got rid of it and not the corpse. That is, unless _you_ tell him."

"I won't," but Dean was having second thoughts. He would have loved to do whatever his little brother wanted, but actually helping Sam stage a salt and burn to make the damned brush gone? It was taking it way too far, even for his taste. He needed to talk some sense into his brother, needed to stop it before it came back to bite them in the ass, very literally so. He had his chance now.

But Sam was looking up at him with those big, beautiful eyes of his, coupled with that oh-so-adorable expression that said he trusted his awesome big brother was able to do _anything_ ; and Dean knew with absolute certainty that he was going to regret this.

He was going to regret this so, so much.

Dean passed a hand over his face, took another breath and straightened up. "Tell me about the hairpin."


	2. The Laudon House

It was actually very simple, or so Sam made it seem.

The Winchesters came to Sweet Mile, Ohio, following the deaths of three people over a couple of months of what seemed to be heart failure. The townspeople themselves thought nothing of it, but all three were perfectly healthy, one of them even a marathonist. Even so, tragedies did happen, and it was only due to the dry spell of cases they were having that Dad dug a little deeper into the coroner's reports to find there were traces of damage in all three victims' hearts that seemed to have been caused by frost.

With no more suspicious deaths for now, they were taking their time checking the case out, and in the meantime Dad enrolled Dean and Sam into the local schools. The high school was okay, Dean figured, not much worse than others he'd been to. And it had a nice selection of pretty girls, the chastity of whom he intended to challenge.

Sam liked the middle school right from the start – the other kids were really nice, he told his father and brother over dinner, and his homeroom teacher gave him a role in a play, an actual role with _lines_ , even though he was the new kid and all. Dad had smiled and told Sam it was great, but that he hoped it wouldn't get in the way of the research he expected Sam to accomplish. Sam promised it wouldn't.

There wasn't much research Sam needed do at first while they worked on finding the connection between the victims. There seemed to be none, and it was only after extensive footwork that Dad figured out they all had something to do with an initial proposal for a project that involved demolishing the old Laudon House at the outskirts of town.

Dad picked them up from school one day and they drove by it to have a look. It was a big Georgian that looked about ready to crumple with age, windows boarded up and parts of the roof collapsed in. Formally, it used to be a boarding school for girls, informally a sort of home to where embarrassed parents shipped their errant daughters – the ones that were less than socially adequate for their time, displayed rebellious or promiscuous behavior, and even those who – God have mercy – got knocked up.

The devoted staff of the Laudon House worked relentlessly to bring the girls back on the righteous path, with methods that would board on abuse in the twentieth century, but were probably quite acceptable for the nineteenth. it was eventually closed down in 1914, Dad had told them, and gained a reputation as the local haunted house. There were no supernatural phenomena, though, and Bobby came up with squat when he tried to find out if any other hunters had previously come around to check the place out.

"So, no ghosts of loose chicks?" Dean asked.

Dad groaned.

They drove slowly around the big house with its seven hundred acres, now all overgrown with wild vegetation.

"There ought to be a graveyard here," Dad said. "Somewhere around the back. They buried staff members, servants and even some of the girls. It'd be very convenient if it's really a ghost of someone that's buried there."

"So it could still be some loose chick," Dean said.

"Yeah, a hundred-year-old loose chick that's freezing up people's hearts."

Dean shrugged. "I guess I can do worse." He grinned when Sam giggled from the back seat. "And they're waking up now because the place was going to be demolished?"

"Seems like it. It was a private property, but it was turned over to the city some years back. They couldn't decide what to do with it, there were debates about making it a preservation site, maybe a sort of a museum. But lately there was a new plan to have it demolished to make way for a residential project. I guess it pissed off someone's spirit."

"Do we know whose?"

"Not yet," Dad looked at the rearview mirror. "Sam, I'll need you to research on this."

From the corner of his eye, Dean could see Sam shifting a bit in his seat. "I… there's the rehearsals for the school play, and you said I could-"

Dad's eyes narrowed. "I said you could be in the play _if_ it doesn't get in the way of the research, didn't I?"

"I can do the research," Dean offered quickly.

"No. I want you to map the Laudon House's cemetery and make out who's buried where, while I find out if there are more people involved in the demolition plans. And Sam needs to learn that it's saving people first, and doing school plays later." Dad looked at Sam through the mirror again. "We clear on that?"

"Yes, sir," Dean grimaced a bit at how miserable his brother sounded, but he really had nothing to do about it; Dad was right, of course, but Sam had so few opportunities to just be _normal_.

Over the next week Sam managed to do quite a lot of research, though, coming up with a list of people who died in the Laudon House. The Winchesters discussed them over their take-out dinners, with their money being mostly on the Witherlow sisters – the two crones who managed the Laudon House up until it shut down.

"The records say that Elizabeth Witherlow died of suffocation when the chimney in her bedroom got clogged, and Rebecca Witherlow died a week later of unknown cause, supposedly heart condition," Sam told his father and brother. "But both of them were really mean, like, Dickensian-style mean, and the girls as well as the rest of the staff hated their guts. It could have been murder, and murder-"

"Generates vengeful spirits," Dad said. He clapped Sam on the shoulder. "Nice work. I want you to dig deeper into this. We need to be sure whose body we burn."

"Yes, sir," as dutiful as Sam sounded, Dean had a feeling his little brother was still more bent on the school play than on the case, and, sure enough, the next day Dad came early to the library to check on Sam's progress, only to find out his youngest had ditched the research in favor of helping the stage workers construct some of the sets.

"It's wasn't even your _job_ , dude," Dean said after Dad had finished scolding Sam back at the motel room and went out, still fuming, to get them dinner. "You're practically asking for it."

Sam wiped his eyes. Even though he was very obviously upset, he had this uncompromising, Sam-stubborn look to him. "All the other kids that are in the play were helping out. If I hadn't gone, they'd think I wasn't pulling my weight."

"So it's the other kids hating you, against Dad beating your ass? Some choice you got there, brother."

But apparently Sam had made his choice, because it was only a few days later that Dad came storming out of the library where him and Dean stopped to pick up Sam, climbed into the Impala and slammed the door closed with a force that made Dean wince with worry for the integrity of the car frame.

"Your brother must have a fucking death wish," Dad growled as he started the engine. "He's off again. Wanna take a guess where to?"

Dean guessed the school gym, where the rehearsals were held, but said nothing; it was a rhetorical question, anyway. Sure enough, when they reached the school, Sam was walking out with some other kids. His laughter, bright and sunny, drifted over to the car. It died immediately when he noticed the Impala, and although he was still a few dozen feet away, Dean could see his face paling.

Sam shuffled to the waiting car and got in the back seat. Dad peeled off the curb and started driving toward the motel. Nobody said a word for a while, and then, when they stopped for a red light, Dad glanced at Sam through the rearview mirror.

"Are you going to tell me there was some research to be done at the school?" He said.

"No, sir."

"Then you have no excuse."

Sam fiddled with the strings of his hoodie. "It was a dress rehearsal."

"It was a-" Dad cut himself off, inhaled, then looked at Sam. "You at least finish determining whose spirit are we hunting?"

"Elizabeth's, sir."

Dad nodded, and the car started moving again as the light turned green. With his eyes fixed on the road he said, "we head out tonight after dark and torch the bitch. Afterwards you can expect a paddling. You hear me, Sam?"

"Yes, sir," Dean couldn't comprehend how Dad was able to listen to that heartbroken whisper without moving a muscle in his face, but he did.

There was no more talking during the rest of the drive.


	3. Salt and Burn

"So, a hairpin," Dean said.

"Yeah. After I realized it was Rebecca's spirit, I went to the city hall. They have a little exhibit there, from the time they were thinking about preserving the place. They had all kinds of pictures and items they took from the house. It's not on display anymore, but I told them I was doing a paper about it, so this lady from the city heritage society let me in the room where they keep all the stuff."

Dean practically beamed with pride. Who said that Sam wouldn't one day pass as an FBI agent, a US marshal or a forest ranger? The kid was a fucking rock star. "So that's where you got the pin from?"

"There were a few pictures of the Witherlow sisters, and in two of them, where the angle was right, you could see Rebecca wearing this unique hairpin; I guess she had it on all the time. It was the only thing I could be sure was hers, and that might carry her DNA. And it was right there in the exhibit."

Dean whistled. "Dude, as soon as we're done with this hunt, I'm gonna take you to buy a shitload of scratch cards. We need to use that luck before it's gone."

Sam gave a little smile that was a bit crooked, and Dean remembered that the end of the hunt meant a spanking for his little brother, and returned to the matter at hand.

"I guess you then grabbed the thing and bailed? You didn't bring it here, did you?"

"Of course not. I'm not stupid. I hid it in the Laudon House graveyard."

"You went there alone? The fuck's wrong with you?!"

"Will you keep it down?" Sam rose a little to get a glimpse through the window, and then sat back down. "I was just in and out, and I had an iron rod and some salt. Besides, I didn't think that Rebecca was going to mind, after all, I was taking her home."

Dean still didn't like it, but there was no point in arguing about it now. "Where did you stash it?"

"Near Elizabeth's grave."

Dean checked the light outside. It was reddening. "Okay, so Dad and I dig up the grave, you fetch the hairpin, and as soon as Dad lights up the corpse you throw it in?"

"That's about the size of it, yeah."

It didn't sound too risky, but still there was a little voice in the back of Dean's head that told him he was following his brother down the path to desolation. He ignored it. "Let's get the rest of the stuff packed."

The moon had already risen when the wheels of the Impala crushed the wild vegetation at the back of the Laudon House. They couldn't get too close to the graveyard because the underbrush grew tall and untamed, but it was less than a hundred and fifty yards away from where they parked.

Dean led the way with a Maglite in one hand and the other balancing their shovels on his shoulder. He'd spent hours there, delving into the weeds and looking for old headstones and then making out the names on them, and had the place practically memorized.

Dad dropped the duffle he was carrying near the grave Dean pointed them to, and set up the camping lantern. Then he picked up one of the shovels. "Alright, let's get to it."

While Sam stood with the sawed-off loaded with salt rounds, ready to fend off the spirit – it was only a question of when, there was no doubt it would come to defend its earthly remains – Dad and Dean took turns digging up Elizabeth Witherlow's grave. The ground was full of twine-like roots that caught on the blades of the shovels and slowed their progress, and Dean had half a mind to have Sam take his turn at the shovel, considering it was because of him they were working their asses off instead of just burning the damned hairpin and being done with it.

But as he climbed out of the rectangular hole and made way for Dad to jump in, there was a bottle of water held out to him along with Sam's sweet, dimpled smile, and Dean just smiled at him and knocked the bottle back.

He was wiping his mouth when he heard the distinctive thump that meant Dad's shovel had finally reached the coffin. A few hard blows, and the old wood splintered and cracked. Dean handed Dad the crowbar and watched him remove enough of the broken lid to reveal the shriveled remains of Elizabeth Witherlow.

As Dad climbed out, Dean signaled at Sam with a sharp nod it was time to get Rebecca's hairpin. Sam nodded back and moved a bit further, bent down and started rummaging through the underbrush. Dean brought the gasoline and the bag of salt over to Dad, trying to stay between him and Sam so Dad wouldn't notice that Sam wasn't covering them with the sawed-off like he was supposed to.

And where was that kid anyway? Wasn't he just getting one lousy little hairpin? Dean looked over his shoulder, and saw Sam's head still bobbing between the weeds. There was a sudden wave of heat and a blaze of light as Dad threw the book of matches down into the gasoline-doused contents of the grave. What was taking Sam so long?

"Dean!" The loud whisper startled him. He was sure Dad heard it, too, but Dad had moved aside to kick some dry bush away from the flames. Dean looked over at Sam; he didn't care one bit for the alarm he saw in his little brother's face, and he was moving even before he realized it. "I can't find it."

_Fuck_. "The hairpin?"

"Yeah," Sam was breathing faster now. "I know I stashed it here, But I don't- Dean, I can't find it."

"Okay, calm down. I'll look for it, you go take care of your brush," it occurred to him that he didn't even know what to look for. "What does this thing look like, anyway?"

"I wrapped it in a handkerchief, but it looks like a feather, a purple feather. It's metal with enamel glaze, you know, the-"

Dean had reached Sam by then and gave him a little shove. "Got it. Move."

Sam darted toward their bags, and Dean shone his Maglite into the tangle of vegetation. How the fuck did Sam managed to lose the damned thing? He whacked aside some weeds and looked for anything that might be a hairpin wrapped in a handkerchief. He forgot to ask what color it was. Too late now.

He was listening absently for Sam's progress on the hairbrush front; he couldn't hear anything that sounded like the heavy wooden object thrown into the fire, but he might have missed it. He risked a peek to see Sam standing a few feet away from the grave, the sawed-off in one hand and the hairbrush in the other, which was held behind his back. Because Dad was right there, staring at the fire. Sam didn't have a clear shot.

Dean cursed under his breath and turned the light to the ground again. Where the hell was it? He took a step further and toed aside a heavily-leafed branch. He thought he saw a spot of light color there, but before he could reach for it, he was airborne.

He crashed into the ground, barely managing to twist his body and do a sort of a half-assed roll that would have never done by John Winchester's standards, but right now probably saved him a broken collarbone. He scrambled to his hands and knees and heard the gun go off.

"Dean!" Dad was rushing over to him while he was getting to his feet. "What the fuck-"

"It's the ghost," he waited a second for the world to steady around him, and then moved toward the bush again.

"It can't be the ghost, we just burned the body."

There was a flicker to their right, and then Dean was flung back again, missing a headstone by a mere inch as he came down. The sawed-off blasted, much closer this time.

"Did I hit it?" Sam's cry sounded out of breath. "Dad, is it dissipa-"

Apparently not, because when Dean raised his head, he saw it; a skinny woman in an old-fashioned dress staring at him with blazing eyes.

"Sam!" His brother turned at the shout and raised the gun, but Rebecca flickered out of view. "Get the fucking pin!"

"What pin?" Dad was moving, too, and Dean again struggled to his feet. He saw the ghostly figure appear just behind Sam.

"Sam, look out!" But Sam wasn't quick enough; with an ear-splitting shriek the spirit rammed itself into him, and he cried out when he was knocked back a good ten feet.

"Sammy!" Dad looked just about to jump in his direction, but Dean noticed he was standing practically over the place where he saw the light spot that might have been the pin.

"Dad! In the bush by your right foot! A handkerchief with a hairpin!" If there was something to be said for Dad, he knew when to act without questions; he crouched down, thrust his hand into the foliage, and came up holding a little bundle.

Almost as soon as he was standing upright again, Rebecca was moving in on him. But just before she hit, Dad tossed the bundle at Dean's direction. Dean lunged, dove down and caught it before it could get lost between the weeds again. He got to his knees, saw Rebecca turning to him, and then she was gone in a cloud of mist when a salt round tore through her.

"Toss it over!" Sam yelled. The ghost actually landed him closer to the burning grave when she knocked him back. Dean threw the bundle as hard as he could, Sam dropped the gun, caught the hairpin, turned, covered the few feet to the grave and practically slammed the pin into the fire.

The spirit appeared again, shrieking horribly as it was consumed in its own ghostly flames. Then it was gone.

The three of them stood there, regaining their breath. For a few long moments the only sound was the crackling of the fire. At last Dad spoke.

"You boys alright?" They nodded at him, and he walked over to where Sam was, held his face with both hands and looked him over; then turned to Dean, who had come to his side, and did the same. Only then did he nod and take a breath. "Okay, so what was that hairpin? Was it Elizabeth's? And how did you know it was there?"

Dean opened his mouth, not really knowing what he was going to say. He hoped his brother had some sort of a backup plan in case Dad found out about the hairpin, and if he did, Dean hoped he'd start putting it into action right about now.

Just then the fire rose a bit and Dad's eyes shifted automatically toward it. But before he returned his gaze to Dean, he seemed to catch sight of something, walked over to the side of the grave and bent down. When he straightened back up, he had the hairbrush in his hand.

"What's this thing doing here?" Dad looked at Dean, then at Sam, his gaze growing more pointed by the second. "What's going on? Dean?"

They were busted, that much Dean knew, but there was still a chance for him to keep Sam's ass out of the line of fire. After all, Dean was the one to point Dad at the hairpin. "I wanted to get rid of the hairbrush. So you wouldn't use it on Sammy."

Dad's eyebrow arched, and Dean could tell he didn't believe a word. He licked his lips, about to try and make the story a bit more plausible, when he felt Sam's hand on his arm and looked down at him. Sam seemed pale but determined, and shook his head at Dean. Then he took a step forward.

"I brought the brush here," he said, looking straight at Dad with his chin up and his shoulders back. "I wanted to burn it with a body in the first salt and burn you'd take me on. When I did the research, I came to the conclusion the spirit was Rebecca Witherlow's, but she was cremated and all that was left was a hairpin, while Elizabeth Witherlow had a grave. So I told you it was Elizabeth's ghost and brought Rebecca's pin to throw in the grave when you torched it. I didn't think it would go sideways the way it did. I'm sorry, Dad. It's all my fault."

Dad stared at him for what seemed to be at least an hour. Then he turned his eyes to Dean. "You knew about all this?"

Dean could see that Sam was about to try and bail him out, and he wouldn't have that; if he couldn't get his baby brother out of trouble, then he'd go down with him. "I knew. I helped him."

Dad looked at him, then back at Sam. He said nothing for a while, but Dean didn't need him to talk to know how mad he was, and his stomach was already knotting.

Dad spoke at last. "Sam, get our gear to the car. Dean, grab a shovel, start covering up the grave," his voice might have sounded calm to anyone else other than his sons. They responded with a double "yes, sir" and got moving.

The final resting place of poor Elizabeth Witherlow was covered up quickly, much thanks to the angry, hard swings of Dad's shovel as he brought up scoops of dirt and threw them into the dying fire. Dean hoped it would get Dad's arms tired, but somehow didn't really believe it would mitigate the punishment he was going to dish out.

When they were done smoothing out the earth over the grave, they went back to the Impala where Sam was waiting, and put the shovels and the lantern in the trunk, which Dad closed shut with a forceful thud. He then turned to Dean and barked, "back seat."

"Yes, sir," if Dean needed another confirmation as to how screwed he was – and he didn't – he had it in the form of this falling from shotgun grace. He climbed into the back seat next to Sam, and Dad turned the car on.

As soon as they were moving, Sam scooted over so he could press into Dean's side, and Dean wrapped his arms around him as tight as he could. The kid was trembling, and Dean knew it wasn't because he was cold. He brought one hand up to cup his shaggy head as Sam hid his face in Dean's coat, and wished he could tell Sammy that everything was going to be okay. But he couldn't. So he held his little brother, rubbed his back, and stared wistfully out the window as the Impala cruised toward their motel.


	4. Good Seats

When they parked in front of their motel room, Dad killed the engine and spoke without turning his head. "Get inside."

Sam pulled away from Dean, his cheeks glistening by the lights of the parking lot until he wiped an arm over his face. They both climbed out of the car, went into the room and shrugged out of their coats.

Dad came in, checked the salt-lines, and locked the door. He took his coat off and draped it over the back of one of the chairs in the kitchenette area. The handle of the hairbrush was shoved into his jeans pocket and its head protruded from it. "Front and center."

They moved to stand at attention in the middle of the room, close enough to each other so their arms were touching; it might not have been the most marine-style thing to do, but they needed this touch right now.

Dad walked slowly over and stood in front of them, looking so much taller than his usual six-two. His face was grim, his eyes like storm clouds beneath drawn-in brows.

"I am so disappointed in you both," he said, and Dean dropped his eyes. As painful as the whipping was going to be – and it was going to be _painful_ – it would never hurt as much as those words did. He snapped his head back up at the crisp "Dean, eyes on me" and tried his best to meet his father's gaze.

"You lied to me, staged a hunt, put our lives in danger. Either of us could have been hurt by that spirit. Or _killed_. And even if it wasn't for the ghost, with a graveyard this close to town, the cops could have showed up and busted us for grave desecration. How would you have felt then, Sam?"

"I'm sorry," Sam whispered.

"You should be. And what was it all for? Because you were afraid of a _spanking_? Have you thought that maybe if you behaved, you wouldn't earn yourself a spanking in the first place?" Dad's stormy eyes shifted to Dean. "I didn't expect this kind of foolishness from you. You should have known better than to let your brother pull such a dangerous stunt. You should have been the grown-up one, the responsible one, the _hunter_. Do you have any excuse for this?"

Big puppy dog eyes and an adorable my-big-brother-is-the-best expression. "No excuse, sir."

Dad looked at them for a moment longer before taking a breath. "Fine, let's get this over with. Dean, over there, into the corner."

"Can I wait in the ba-"

"Corner. Now."

"Yes, sir," with a last glance at Sam, Dean walked over to the spot Dad indicated, and stood facing the wall. Dad could have let him stay outside or in the bathroom, but he wanted more than just having him at a moment's notice when it was his turn; he wanted Dean to hear Sam's punishment, and hear it well.

The bedsprings creaked under Dad's weight. Then there were some shuffling and rustling noises – undoubtedly Sam coming to Dad's side and lowering his pants. Then more creaking from the springs, when Sam's weight was added to Dad's as he went over his knees.

Dean nearly jumped when the first loud swat of wood on flesh rang through the air. It was followed by another, and another, and Dean closed his eyes and tried his hardest not to listen for Sam's reaction. Sam stayed silent at first, but Dean could tell by the sound of the swats that Dad was applying them hard, and, sure enough, soon there were little strangled noises acknowledging each whack.

Dean clenched his fists and brought one of them up to his mouth. He would rather go through a dozen whippings and not have to bear listening to his baby brother like this. He felt tears starting to run down his face, but didn't bother wiping them away. It wasn't like anybody was seeing it.

It went on for what seemed to Dean to be ages, but must have been less than ten minutes. Dean suspected that the swats sounded louder not only because he was in the same room, but also because Dad was going harder on Sam than he typically did. It was to be expected, with everything Sam had done, and he probably deserved it, too; but his muffled sobs still tore at the pit of Dean's stomach. And then the sound of the hairbrush stopped, and there was only Sam's stifled weeping.

A moment or two later, the bedsprings creaked again, and that, along with other rustling noises, told Dean that Dad was pulling Sam up into a hug to calm him down. Sam was still crying, but Dean could barely hear it; Sam must have had his face buried into Dad's chest or shoulder. It allowed Dean to relax some, and he finally wiped the tears off his face.

When Sam spoke, Dean had to strain to make it out. "I'm so sorry, Dad."

"Everything's okay now, son. Go trade places with your brother."

"Please don't punish Dean, he's just-"

"Corner, Sam."

"Yes, sir."

Dad's voice, louder. "Dean."

Dean turned away from the wall and walked slowly toward the bed; he wasn't stalling – God knew _that_ never ended well – but he wanted to have enough time to look Sam over as he made his way to Dean's former post. Sam's eyes were red and wet, he was trembling a little, but he seemed okay. Dean gave him a tiny smile and brushed an arm against him when they passed each other, but Sam didn't return the smile; the look he gave Dean was distressed, and Dean wanted to tell him not to worry, that he'd be fine, but he didn't have time for it.

As Sam took his place facing the corner, Dean unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his jeans. Then he stood in front of Dad, waiting to be directed to the piece of furniture Dad wanted him bent over. But Dad remained seated on the bed, looking at him. His hand moved, and tapped his thigh.

Dean looked at the hand, then back into Dad's face. "You're not… I'm not getting the belt?"

"I figured since you wanted to burn the hairbrush, you should at least get a chance to know what it feels like."

Dean nearly gaped at that. What the hell? It was _Sam's_ hairbrush, wasn't it? But Dad didn't have the patience to allow Dean to come to terms with this new concept.

"Move, Dean. Or do you need a road map?"

"No, sir."

He came to his dad's side, pushed his jeans and boxers down, and carefully maneuvered to drape himself over Dad's knees. It was awkward as hell. He was nearly six feet tall; true, still shorter than his dad, but he was seventeen _and_ _a half_ , for Christ's sake, that's practically eighteen. He shouldn't be spanked over the knee like a child. Coming to think of it, he probably shouldn't be spanked at all at his age, but as far as their father was concerned, Sam and him were bound to have both their asses blistered well into their thirties if they fucked up enough to deserve it. And he had to admit he _did_ fuck up enough to deserve it.

And he guessed that getting his ass roasted by the very thing that got Sam and him to where they were was just appropriate. Still, his face was burning when he settled over his father's lap and felt Dad adjusting his body a bit. He then let his left foot slide a bit forward on the floor and the right a bit back, so his left thigh was lower than the right, and Dean's ass was raised higher up. To get better aim, no doubt. God, he wished that stupid bitch Rebecca Witherlow had killed him when she had the chance.

Dean rested his forearms on the bedspread and stared down at it. It had a nice floral design. Dad's left hand took hold of his waist, and being snugged against his body, Dean could feel it when Dad raised his right hand. He had a second to muse that it was a fair kind of warning he didn't get when being whipped with the belt, and then the hairbrush came crashing down and he forgot all about warnings and belts and floral designs.

As surprisingly painful as the first few whacks were, they were meant more for placement. Dean could tell that as soon as Dad started laying into him in earnest; then there was nothing he could do other than grab onto the bedspread for dear life, bury his face in it and wish he had never seen Sam with the damned hairbrush in the first place, or better yet – had the common sense to hinder his brother's stupid-ass plan before it landed both of them over Dad's knee.

Dean was aware Dad was paddling him much harder than he did Sam; the kid was tough when he wanted to be, but Dean knew his little brother's threshold for pain, and Sam would have been screaming bloody murder if he had gotten what Dean was getting now.

Which was fucking _bad_. It wasn't like he expected any less. It might have been Sam's plan, but Dean was the oldest, the one responsible. And, accordingly, the new one Dad was tearing him was much bigger. Jesus Christ, his legs were actually _kicking_ slightly; it had been so long since he'd been in this position, he had forgotten all about this unfortunate side-effect. And in his defense, Dad was raining havoc all over his ass, and it was hard enough to stay in position, keep his voice down _and_ refrain from kicking when the goddamned hairbrush cracked down with all the power of hell behind it. Dean had laughed at Sam's belief that the hairbrush might be cursed – not to his face, though, he was just that decent of a guy – but being on the receiving end had given him a fresh perspective. The hairbrush wasn't cursed; it was fucking _possessed_.

As much as he tried to lie still, a harsh volley of swats to that sensitive place where the curve of his ass met his thigh made him buck involuntarily. This was swiftly rewarded with a stinging smack to the back of each thigh and a sharp "settle down". Dean smothered a yelp, breathed out, "yes, sir", and grabbed onto the bedspread even tighter as the paddling continued.

After an eternity, Dad finally stopped. Dean lay over his lap, shaking and panting into the bedspread, feeling the tears soaking into it. He managed not to openly cry, but he was damned close. He didn't care if Dad saw it; the old man made him weep enough times before. It was Sammy he was thinking about. His brother was already feeling like crap about getting them in trouble, and he was right there listening to Dad whaling on Dean's ass. Hearing his tough big brother crying was the last thing the kid needed.

Dad's hand was on his back, rubbing gently. Dean could feel his body calming down, the trembling lessening, his breathing evening out. At last he propped himself up on his elbows, signaling he was ready to get up and waiting for permission to do so. Dad gave him one last rub, then slid his arm under Dean's and helped him up.

Dean stood a bit unsteadily and pulled his pants up. It scraped like sandpaper over his ass, and he didn't button up his jeans; the clothes would just rub harder against his skin, and he was going to change into sweatpants as soon as possible anyway. From the corner of his eye he saw Dad standing up, and when he was done with the pants he was pulled into a strong embrace. He leaned into it, his face pressing to Dad's chest.

"Do something like that again, and what you'd get will make this feel like love taps," Dad said quietly into his ear.

"I won't, Dad. I'm really sorry."

Dean felt Dad's big hand resting warm on the back of his neck. "You're forgiven."

He couldn't face Sam quite yet, so he clung to Dad some more, and Dad held him like he was an upset little child, and not nearly six feet tall and practically eighteen. It felt good, it felt safe and warm, and Dean could have stayed like this all night, if it wasn't the thought of Sammy, still standing in the corner.

Dean breathed in, and gently disengaged from Dad and looked up at him. Dad moved the hand that cupped the back of Dean's neck, wiped his cheeks, and then let go.

"Sammy," he called.

Sam turned away from the wall and walked over to where his father and brother stood. He had been obviously crying some more while he was standing there, but he wiped his face as he walked and came to stand near Dad and Dean. He didn't look at them.

Dad reached his hand, held Sam's chin and gently lifted his face up. His big thumb rubbed at the side of Sam's jaw. "You're okay?"

Sam nodded and snuffled.

Dad moved his hand and slowly started brushing Sam's hair with his fingers. "Tell you what. It's about a month till summer vacation. Why don't I let you boys finish school here? It shouldn't be a problem for me to find a temporary job in this town or in one of the next towns over."

Sam's eyes grew large. "You'd let us stay?"

Dad nodded. "Can't promise you a place better than this motel, though."

"It's okay," there was a little smile starting to form in the corners of Sam's mouth.

Dad smiled at him and let his hand fall away. "When's your play?"

"My play?"

"The school play."

A bit of tension came back into Sam's face. "It's… uh… next Tuesday."

"Right," Dad stretched his arms. "Get us good seats, not way out in the back where we can't hear you." He tilted his head to both sides, producing light popping sounds. "I think I deserve a long, hot shower. Really long and really hot."

With that he turned away from them, scooped up a change of clothes, and disappeared into the bathroom. Both boys stared at the closed door, and then at each other. Dean saw Sam open his mouth, and shook his head.

"Don't, man. Just accept it and be thankful." Sam looked like he might reply to that, and then shrugged. "C'mon, let's get you laid down for a while until the bathroom's free. You want some Tylenol?"

"Are you taking any?"

Dean snorted. " _Dude_. Have I ever taken Tylenol because of a spanking?"

"He paddled you really hard," Sam said quietly. "I could tell."

He sounded so concerned and pained that Dean felt a little clenching in his chest. He raked his fingers through Sam's hair. "I'm fine, Sammy. Don't worry, okay? C'mon."

He led Sam, not to his cot, but to Dean's bed, and climbed in beside him. Dean would usually lie on his back and let Sam's head rest on his chest, but this was definitely not going to happen. But Sam was fine with Dean on his side facing him, and quickly snuggled up in his arms and tucked his head under Dean's chin.

Dean felt Sam's hand grabbing his shirt and smiled. Sammy did that ever since he was a baby, and to Dean it felt like Sam was trying to hold him in place, not let him get away.

_I ain't never leaving you, little brother. Not ever._

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry I dragged you into this," there was a hint of tears in Sam's voice, and Dean tightened his arms around him. "You didn't deserve to be punished. Why didn't you just let me tell Dad it was all my fault?"

"Because it wasn't. I should have stopped you, and instead I helped you."

"I made you."

Dean moved one hand so he could smack the back of Sam's head, very lightly. "You can't make me do anything I don't wanna do, squirt."

He could feel Sam smiling against his chest. "You keep telling yourself that, jerk."

"Bitch."

Sam snuggled a little closer and for a few minutes the only sounds were their breathing and the water running in the shower. And then Sam whispered, "thanks, Dean."

There was a slight prickling in Dean's eyes, and he blinked a few times, then tilted his head a bit so his mouth and nose touched Sam's hair; it still smelled a little of smoke, but somehow, on Sam it was sweet.

He cleared his throat and tried to sound gruff. "Well, don't think it's not gonna cost ya. You're doing my English assignments for the rest of the semester."

Sam giggled softly, his grip on Dean's shirt tightening a bit. "Gonna be hard for me to write anything worth a D minus, but I'll do my best."

"That's rich coming from a kid who misplaced a fucking _hairpin_."

Sam giggled again. "Lucky I have such an awesome big brother, then. Right?"

With his mouth still in Sam's hair, Dean smiled. "That you are, Sammy."

**Author's Note:**

> Like my works? Want to subscribe and get updates on new stories? Make sure you subscribe to the **user** and not the specific work!


End file.
